


Happy Valentine's Birthday Squared

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Birthday Cake, Birthday Party, Friends as Family, Friendship, Gen, Happy Birthday, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 23:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: It’s Christian’s birthday party and Vincent is invited. He goes, has a great time. Life at Tottenham isn’t all bad, and today is an example of why.





	Happy Valentine's Birthday Squared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



> Beta ain't nothing but a letter. You've been warned.

“So,” Jan drawled, throwing himself into space beside Vincent on the almost too overstuffed sofa in the rec room. 

Vincent lifted his gaze from his iPad, fixed it on his teammate. “Jan,” he greeted, half wondering what he was doing here, because Jan rarely came to this part of the building. The larger rec room was more like a den which tended to be colonised by the younger lads, like Dele and Sonny, who tended to be rowdy and well... young. Before he had a chance to verbalise his observations, Jan pressed on. 

“Are you free next week Tuesday?”

“Next week---” Vincent narrowed his eyes in thought, stopped. Smiled. “Ahhh, Jan, are you asking me to be your Valentine?”

Jan blinked, stupefied for a moment before he cracked up. “Sorry, I’m already spoken for, but thanks though.”

“Your loss,” Vincent retorted, but before he got back to looking at game highlights on his iPad, Jan placed a hand on his arm. “Next week is Christian’s birthday, and we’re having a small dinner party by Toby’s. We’re asking people to bring balloons and sweets, like you would for a Valentine. Push the boat out.”

Vincent’s face warmed, and he hoped Jan didn’t notice the flush. “Chris doesn’t need a Valentine.”

“I know! That’s why it will be fun.”

“I’m not following you?”

Jan rolled his shoulders. “You know Chris, he doesn’t celebrate his birthday much, save for red porridge. So we’ll have red porridge, red and white for the colours of Denmark... it will be fussy and obnoxious. He’ll pretend to hate, but secretly, he likes being fussed over.”

***

“Oh my God,” Christian laughed, pushing the crown from his forehead back to sitting on the top of his head. He blinked at the sight before him, disbelieving. After having his blindfold whisked from his eyes by Toby, the colours of red and white everywhere dazzled. From clusters of balloons floating overhead to an oversized papier-mache deer hanging from the ceiling, complete with wonky horns and stubby tail.

February 14, Valentine’s day. Normally a day for sweethearts, and romantic gestures, which the lads normally did with their significant others. 

Looking at the oversized bouquet of plush red velvet roses seated on the side table, Christian realised that charming his partner wasn’t too far from Mousa’s mind. Only for his eyes to widen when Toby foisted the bunch of flowers on _him_.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Christian protested, his face warm, half from embarrassment and sentiment as he held the bouquet against the body, unable to stop the grin splitting his face as Mousa draped a cape over his shoulders. 

His friends and most of his teammates to hand, their presence a live and humming thing. The mood they brought into the living room brighter than sunshine, a restorative tonic against the bitterly cold, grey days of February in Britain. 

“They compliment your eyes,” Ben quipped, lifting his phone to snap a photo.

“A gender-switched Mr Universe,” Eric pointed out. 

“Ah yes,” Ben agreed, with a smirk. “The rule of the internet, number sixty-three.”

“Somewhere, in another universe, there’s a Chris Eriksensdotter--”

“They don’t use the female suffixes anymore, I think,” Ben pointed out. “It’s-”

“Wait!” Mousa called the room to attention, with a sharp clap of his hands. The chatter stilled, as every head turned towards him. Mousa tended to be quiet, so when he raised his voice, it had the equivalent of a thunderclap on a clear spring day. “Let’s do this like we practised.”

“Oh my God,” Christian pressed his palm against his mouth in surprise as everyone launched into _har fødseldsdag og det har han jo og det er idag_ -and made an absolute shambles of it. Most people squinting at their phone screens as they stumbled and tripped over the actual words of the song. Dele and Trippier giving up on trying to get the tune, and doing an odd speaking- singing thing, their spoken words a few seconds ahead of everyone else singing.

It was the worst and the absolute best at the same time. 

“Now that’s done with,” Jan shouted from the far side of the room, where he stood behind a computer connected to a mini mixing board and speakers in the shape of pandas. The set up perched on the round surface of the table which was moved from the kitchen. “Let’s party like it’s... 1992.”

Which didn’t have the same hook as 1999, to be honest? 

Nor the same hits. 

Or even, Christian discovered shortly - the songs weren’t even from his birth year. 

_Take On Me_ , a great song for karaoke, but erm... 

“I think you have the wrong country,” he said to Jan, who was trying his hand at deejaying - if deejaying meant that he arranged his iTunes to play nothing but upbeat songs by A-ha. If he’d had to hear _Take On Me_ one more time, well... someone was going to get hurt. 

“Aren’t A-ha Danish?” 

“They’re from Olso,” Christian explained. 

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Jan had the grace to look embarrassed. “Wow, that completely ruins my playlist. So Royksopp... ?” 

“It’s fine,” Christian patted Jan’s shoulder, not wanting to point out that they too, were Norwegian. 

The music did its job, making people loosen up, as they chatted companionably with drinks, or pieces of Danish _Drommekage_ on plates in hand. It also brought out the pleasant ambience of joking and great conversation as the evening spun out. The living room softly lit with gold tones, a push against the darkness of the day that pressed against windows. Although the evenings were drawing longer because of the earth’s forward tilt to Spring, March was still too far away. 

Eric’s arm around Tripps’ shoulders as they posed for a selfie, phone in his other hand, with Tripps pulling the worst faces. The air spiced with the smell of smoked meat coming from outside in the backyard as Erik ‘Coco’ Lamela manned the barbeque, rebuffing all offers of help. Recovering from his hip surgery, he had to get around on crutches, but that didn’t stop him from doing his bit as an _asador_. He’d been here for hours, tending to the fire and getting it ready. Arrived with flanks of meat, the magic that was _chimichurri_ and various salsa sauces he’d whipped up fresh in Mousa’s kitchen. 

“It’s fine,” Christian repeated, and it really was. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Go on,” Jan waved him off, his eyes on the computer screen. “Mix with your subjects, Prince Christian.”

Christian frowned, only to remember the crown perched on his head. Not one of those wobbly foiled ones that you got from a kid’s store, but an actual _prop_. With a weight to it, faux ermine border and a silk lining. Oh, yeah. It was _frightening_ how quickly a body got used to things. 

Before Christian could comment on _that_ , Jan gave a general wave of his hand. Christian followed his movement, his eyes resting on Vincent and Toby standing by the door leading out to the back garden. The conservation a pleasant one, he supposed, since neither man didn't seem to want to move

As soon as Christian stepped away from Jan, the rumble of drums and the musical tweeting of birds followed his steps like a Prince in a Walt Disney movie. Christian stopped, slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing because he _might have recognised that --_

Before Christian could even object with a, _Oh come on_ , the bouncy, high pitched notes of _Barbie Girl_ by Aqua blared out. 

Christian gaped, his hands thrown outward in a gesture of _seriously?_.

“A Danish group,” Jan snarked over the microphone.

***

“Thanks for coming,” Toby said to Vincent. They stood by the sliding doors, half in the garden where Erik muttered and poked and sighed over the meat of his barbeque, half in the living room where Christian and everyone else hung out. Most players mindful of training in the morning and sticking to non-alcoholic drinks and light snacks on their plates. Vincent had a slice of Christian’s birthday cake, and it lived up to its translated name of _dream cake_. A silky, smooth vanilla flavour, with the exotic surprise of coconut and sugar topping.

“Thanks for the invite,” Vincent said politely. 

In a strange, roundabout way, Toby and himself had called a bit of a truce - for now. Although if pushed, Vincent couldn’t say what this truce was about - not necessarily. Toby and himself didn’t necessarily gel, but it wasn’t as if they were enemies either. They were teammates, tied by their experiences of the Eredivisie and a common language. Whereas those things made Jan and Mousa warm to him quite a bit, with Toby and himself, it had been a nod of acknowledgement across a crowded room. As in, they recognised each other but didn’t go out of their way to get to _know_ each other. 

He’d spent many a time wondering why when his mind wasn’t absorbed with everything else - and Christian- and had no answer. They were cordial with each other, but not cold. Didn’t seek out each other’s company, but didn’t avoid each other either. 

Still, he’d been caught off guard when Toby sought him out after training on the Friday afternoon.

“I’m sure Jan’s told you about the party we’re holding for Christian,” he’d said, as Vincent tugged his hoodie over his head, punching his hands through the sleeves of his jacket.

“Yeah,” Vincent dragged out the word, wondering what Toby’s game was. “And here I am, thinking Jan wanted to be my Valentine.”

Toby raised an eyebrow, and too late, Vincent realised his joke had fallen flat. “I -I - I meant,” he stammered, only for Toby to wave it off. 

“If you can drop by, please do,” Toby continued. “Christian likes you, and he’d miss you if you weren’t there. _Tot ziens_ , Vincent.”

“ _Tot ziens_ , Toby.”

Later, fast forward to now. 

He had enjoyed everything today in the run-up to this, including the preparations. 

Jan and Mousa roping him in as they set up for the evening earlier in the day. They had ordered small helium gas cylinders, and everyone laughing until they were ill as they took a hit of helium, their voices having the pitch of cartoon chipmunks. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Mousa roared, his head pressed against the surface of the kitchen island, his body shaking with the force of his laughter, as he slapped at the surface of the kitchen island with his open palm. “Jantje, sing it again.”

“ _Toby, Toby, ik voel vlinders in mijn buik_ ,” Jan obliged, voice high and stretched from the helium gas he'd inhaled from the balloon in his hand. Jan, Mousa and Vincent couldn’t help it, as they collapsed in fits of laughter, hanging on to the edge of the kitchen island for dear life. Toby didn't help the situation, his face looking as if he’d gotten a surprise slap. 

Toby’s swiftly whispered, “Fuck off,” as he tied the ends of the white balloons with silky ribbon didn't help matters. The ribbon slipped through his fingers as he let them loose, a canopy of red and white balloons floating on the kitchen ceiling above them. 

This only made them laugh even harder. 

Being there, in the early afternoon, the kitchen lit by the weak sun, him and his teammates getting the house ready for their teammate, Vincent embraced the moment of unfiltered joy. Wishing that he could have held the time a bit longer, the camaraderie of his teammates a bit closer. 

It didn’t hurt that he respected all of them - ex-Ajax and AZ players who left the Dutch league and thrived here. Jan at Tottenham, Toby at both Southampton and now Spurs, Mousa at Fulham and Spurs. They weren’t just good teammates, but great people. Given time, Vincent hoped, they might have the chance to be good friends too.

The feeling stayed with him as the other Spurs players arrived, wearing their status of being members of a Sky Six team lightly, with a confidence and casualness that Vincent could only be envious of. Especially when it came to Dele and Sonny. Dele had that kind of temperament and talent which made him at ease wherever he presented himself. Sonny, the hard work and humility to nurture his innate skills, and the humility to go from fringe player to work his way into Poch’s starting line up. 

Even with all of that, they just took their place and talents in stride, and just _fit_.

Christian being more of the same. The knack and savvy, yes, but he just slotted in _everywhere_ , as seamless as thought. 

Pushing his woolgathering away, Vincent focused on the now. 

He had waited in silence like everyone else, their hands over their mouths as Christian stepped in, blindfolded, his hand on Toby’s arm. His steps halting, his head tilted slightly, as if trying to guess what was going on via sound. Moussa pressed his fingers against his lips, a signal for everyone to keep quiet 

He tip-toed beside Christian as soon as the door closed, fixing a crown on top of his head. An actual _crown_ , with enough weight that Christian’s hand shot up, steadying it on his head, touching his forehead and temple, hardly believing what was happening. 

The blindfold came off, and Christian received a bouquet of red velvet roses the size of a toddler. At Mousa’s urging, everyone started singing the Danish birthday cheer, and Christian laughed. In the snug and pleasant intimacy of friendship and birthdays, Christian less the talented teammate with the confidence in his abilities and someone warmer, softer, a lot more human. 

The flush riding high on his cheeks as he thanked everyone, “Making the effort, for..” he’d paused, stumbled over his words, his features half in a daze at the spectacle before him. He continued his thanks, his voice strong and even. “Being here. This is amazing.”

“Like I said,” Toby’s voice now cutting into Vincent's thoughts, yanking him into the present. “Thank --- ah, here’s the birthday boy now.”

Christian grinned, the cape now off somewhere. The too real replica of a sovereign’s crown still perched on his head, incongruous with the soft button down shirt and ripped jeans he was sporting. It made him look rakish, and handsome, like a page ripped out of a magazine editorial. 

“Toby,” Christian nodded, greeting them with a grin. “Vincent.”

“Interesting theme song,” Toby commented over the notes of _Barbie Girl_ chirping in the background. 

“The first Danish group he finds,” Christian shrugged his shoulders, his mouth curving into a smirk. His own version of, _I don’t have the words. It’s just..._

“ _A-ha_ aren’t Danish?”

“Not you too,” Christian shook his head, but he didn’t seem to be too torn up by it. The poppy lyrical song of _Barbie Girl_ slipping into something Ambient and synth wave. Less something to dance to and more to fill up dead air, like notes from a harp at one of those posh dinners with sponsors that the team had to present themselves at times 

“Hmm,” Toby closed his eyes for a moment, sniffed at the air. “That smells about done, you think?”

“Coco is manning the grill, not me,” Christian answered.

“I’m going to have a peek.”

“Don’t eat it all, Toby.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Toby grinned, “it smells so good.”

With that, Toby moved off, and it was just him and Christian, crown now askew atop his head. 

“ _Gefeliciteerd_ ,” Vincent greeted. They didn’t do the whole _congratulations_ song and dance over here when it came to the subject of one’s birthday in England. You got the odd birthday greeting, and perhaps cake. Your friends may or may not get you a card or sing _Happy Birthday_ , then drag you off to a bar crawl. 

Just one more thing that caught him off guard, another cultural distance. 

“Thanks,” Christian beamed, “I didn’t ... The roses and crown are over the top, don’t you think?”

“Embarrassing,” Vincent grinned. But he knew enough now about Christian to know Jan’s comment to be true. He was not so secretly thrilled about being fussed over, his exaggerated eye roll at Jan notwithstanding. He still had the crown on his head, didn’t he?

“I didn’t expect all of this,” Christian waved, the gesture encompassing the room, of cake and roses on tables, red and white balloons floating about them, and the chatter around them. “A card would have been enough.”

“Any excuse for a party,” Vincent replied, his eyes on Christian’s face, not wanting to look away. “It’s probably a way of carrying the team spirit forward.”

Like Pochettino did two months ago, hanging mistletoe _everywhere_. Christian and himself sharing a moment under said mistletoe, singing _Wij houden van Oranje_. 

After last season - the season before he came- the senior lads in the squad had taken it upon themselves to do the odd activity to maintain team bonds, to make the fringe players like himself feel apart of the team. By and large, it worked. For Wimmer, for instance, it helped that he and Sonny were as thick as thieves, and the goodwill Sonny cultivated spilt over from himself to Kevin. As for Vincent... Jan and Mousa helped in ways big and small. Even Toby threw a life buoy in his direction from time to time

“Probably,” Christian agreed. 

“Or probably because you’re well-liked, Christian,” Vincent said, “from the gaffer down to the kitman. You have guys here who risking their relationship status by showing up to pay their respects on tonight of all nights.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Are you risking _your_ relationship status by being here?” 

Vincent leaned against the doorframe, half laughing at Christian’s mild concern. “No, more my team status. What with all the cake and soon to be barbeque--” he shut that line of thought off, his eyes on Christian’s face. No, he wasn’t going to even think about - well, anything else. 

Christian opened his mouth to say something, only for a sharp whistle to cut through the air. 

“Hey!” Coco waved from his place by the barbeque, a ways from the doorway where they stood. 

The barbeque a bright red object in the shape of a light bulb cut in half, and slotted on top of a tripod. Nearby the barbeque, a side table with all the things set out for a barbeque, including napkins, stacked plates and the mossy green of the chimichurri sauce in glass jars. Bowls of _salsa criolla_. Nearer to the grill, and Vincent realised that it wasn’t haphazard bits of meat thrown around. No, they were stacked and orderly, from thick flanks of ribs to linked sausages and -- vegetables, such as roast corn and bell peppers, adding pops of colour to the feast of roast meat. 

“No vegetarian option?” Vincent asked. 

“If you ask an Argentine for a vegetarian option, they’d sooner give you chicken,” Christian mused, taking him in. “Do you need a vegetarian option? If you---”

“It’s your _birthday_ Chris,” this from Mousa bringing out stacks of paper plates. “Leave that to us. There are vegetarian options in the oven if you need, Vincent. As for you, Christian, you’re king for a...” he stopped, thought for a minute. “Until midnight, anyway.”

“And then I turn into a pumpkin?”

“Probably.”

***

“Thank you, thank you,” Coco smiled, his dimples piercing his cheeks, bowing with a flourish as he took in _un aplauso para el asador_. The clap of appreciation given to the person manning the barbeque for _hours_ , transforming hunks of flesh into fragrant, flavourful, evenly cooked meat. The meal of meat itself ranging from short ribs, to kidney and sweetmeats.

All this served with _ensalada criolla_ , a medley of tomato, lettuce and onion, with lashings of vinegar and oil. 

Everyone standing and milling around in the garden with plates in their hands, nodding and humming at the flavours of meat, spiced with the sharpness of _chimichurri_ , and the sweetness of the salsa to go with the smokiness of the main. 

***

“Normally, we don’t serve this before midnight in Argentina,” Coco explained over a coffee, his elbows on the kitchen island. Now that his duties around the barbeque were done, he made a beeline for the kitchen, where coffee and cake awaited. "Seven p.m. is too early. And the barbeque wasn’t - -”

“It’s perfect,” Christian murmured, his crown sitting on top of the kitchen island beside his plate. His hair slightly flattened from where the crown had been perched. The air sweetened by the bouquet of roses dumped in a champagne bucket on the island before them, the smoky flavours of the meat drifting away. 

“We normally have uhhh...” Coco snapped his fingers. “A _Malbec_ , to go with the flavours, but...” 

“Coco,” Christian draped an arm across his shoulders, their heads touching. Both of them in the kitchen, where both music and noise were comfortably distant. He thought about the effort his friend put into this, the _asador_. Coco's crutches never far off, his worries about his form probably haunting his every moment, but that didn’t stop him from turning up and doing a barbeque. 

“It’s perfect,” Christian repeated with feeling. “Everything is.” 

***

By nine p.m. most people had peeled off, leaving hearty cheers for Mousa, Toby and Jan; hugs and high fives for Christian. Most on their way to extend the evening with their significant others, having promised them a meal in a nice restaurant, or a romantic night in.

Ben stayed behind as long as he possibly could, grabbing a giant garbage bag, throwing napkins and paper plates in. 

“You should go,” Vincent urged, “I’ll clean up.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not the one with the girlfriend waiting for you to take her out for a nice meal,” Vincent held out his hand for the garbage bag and waggled his fingers. “Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ben rubbed at the nape of his neck, scrunching his nose in thought. “Okay,” he relented, handing Vincent the bin bag. “I owe you one.”

Vincent looked around the living room, and apart from the smears on the glass table, and drink bottles tucked in the corners of the window sill, it wasn’t that bad. Almost everyone tried to clean up after themselves, well aware that this was a teammate’s home and kept their mess to a minimum. The least you could do was respect the surroundings. 

“Tomorrow,” Vincent waved Ben away. 

In the relative quiet of the house, Vincent got to work. 

Not that it was totally quiet, with the Ajax trio and Mousa in the kitchen, talking amongst themselves in a mixture of Dutch and English, laughing amongst themselves, with the rhythmic surge of the dishwasher the background to their chatter. 

Jan’s computer still on, but tuned to an internet radio station that boasted tunes of Nostalgia. Some trippy dance track with an eerie voice wailing about not loving the sun or caring if it shone, because his heart got broken playing in the background. Hah, he thought, he’d kill for some sunlight right now. Looking around, Vincent knew the drill. Glass, plastic and waste in different bags. Recyclables versus waste, and --

“Hey,” and that was Christian, standing on top of the stairs leading into the recessed level of the living room. In one hand, cleaning agent with a spray nozzle and cleansing cloths. “You’re still here?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent answered, grabbing paper cups and stuffing them into the assigned bin bag. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” Christian tripped down the stairs, making his way to the low lying coffee table. “Jan said that you were here all day setting up.”

“You shouldn’t have to clean up,” Vincent shot Christian a look over his shoulder. “You are the birthday boy. King for the day, remember?”

“12:00 a.m. is less than three hours away?” 

“I would like to be invited back,” Vincent admitted. “Mousa, Jan and Toby, they’re all good guys, and ---” he stopped, straightened up, turning fully to face Christian. “Well.”

“Well,” Christian repeated, the sandy fluff of his hair askew and flattened in some areas due to the crown he’d been wearing all night. Now bareheaded, clad in the same jeans and button down like before, but sleeves rolled up this time, enough for Vincent to see the gilt of hair on his forearms, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, because cleaning up made you sweat, even in the depths of a cold February. 

“I -” Vincent started, eyes drifting from Christian's forearms to his torso, his gaze settling on Christian’s face. It didn't help that Christian had a face Vincent would never get tired of seeing. 

“Christian, who are you--oh, Vincent,” Mousa stopped at the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning,” Christian explained, and Mousa pulled a face. “You should be home, Vincent. Christian- you shouldn’t be cleaning. King for a day, remember? Or, at least, two and a half hours to go.”

“I don’t really---” Vincent started. 

“He doesn’t want to go home as yet,” Christian observed in that quiet way of his, rubbing at the blonde scruff on his chin with his free hand. 

“And you can’t clean,” Mousa said. “I mean it, Christian.”

“If I’m King for the... next two and odd hours, don’t I get a say in what I can or can’t do?”

“Nice try.”

***

“Sorry,” Christian said, as they found themselves seated at the foot of the steps like naughty children in timeout. Both of them in a half-slouch, their elbows on their knees. In front of them Toby, Jan and Mousa tidied up. The stairs facing passageway and the front room. The trio went about tidying up systematically. Toby with a vacuuming wand, to Mousa hauling down the balloons from the ceiling by their ribbons.

“Don’t be, as long as you enjoyed your birthday.”

Christian lifted his head, resting his chin on his fist, his eyes half-mast as if being tugged into sleepiness. The long, blond, straight fringe of his lashes veiling the blue of his eyes. “Yeah,” he said after a minute. “It was more than I expected. It was everything I didn’t know I wanted a birthday to be.”

“Because of the barbeque?”

“It isn’t a small matter,” Christian admitted. “Coco’s been --- you know his problems. It would have been easy for him to just stay away, and focus on himself. But he showed up for me.”

It wouldn’t do, Vincent realised, to even feel slightly jealous. Lamela arrived at Spurs about the same time as Christian. They suffered through the craziness of the club before Pochettino rocked up, and they had more history through adversity and wins and devastating losses before Vincent had even been a name in Spurs’ scouting report. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Vincent said at last. “It was fun just being a part of it, with Jan, Toby and Mousa. They didn’t have to --”

“I’m glad you came,” Christian reached over and touched Vincent’s knee. The action fleeting, and friendly. It was unfair, how his self-preservation disappeared when he was around Christian. Normally, Vincent might have railed against it, but this moment... 

This moment another perfect link in the chain of a day that had been bloody well brilliant. Jan and the others inviting him to be a part of this, from the helium balloon singing in the kitchen to delicious barbeque, and this. Even this, them sharing a naughty step. 

“Happy Valentine’s Birthday squared,” he said. Christian stared at him for a minute, before he _got it_. His laughter rang out loud enough for Jan, Mousa and Toby to stop their motions for a second. To look at Christian and Vincent. An exchange of looks and eye rolls amongst them before going back to the business of tidying up. 

Vincent didn’t move, didn’t want to move. They sat there, waiting for the time to tick down, for Christian’s reign to come to an end. Vincent wishing he could capture time in a bottle, press the images between glass. Knowing, in the end, that it would be a memory tinged with scents: of smoke and umami flavours of meat unfurling throughout the night. The sharp lemon gust of the cleanser Mousa used whilst cleaning the glass table. The notes of sour cherries and almonds of Christian’s cologne, the coconut flavour of his birthday cake. 

The pictures of the day on his phone: Christian’s hand clutching the crown on his head, the cluster of flowers pinned against his torso, eyes bright and rounded from awed happiness, surprised and delighted that all this was for him. Christian’s head against Coco’s in the kitchen, with a plate of half-eaten ribs, and steaming cups of coffee before them, the crown on the table nearby, blood red roses in the foreground. 

Valentine’s Day, a day to exchange hearts and affections, and Vincent went and gave his away. 

Not minding that he did so, because today was the perfect day for it, even if Christian hadn’t known that he was now the recipient of said heart. 

Today, February 14, 2017. 

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! This fic only took six bleeding months to finish! 
> 
> Drizzit, this was the third fic which I'd been working on for your Christmas fic (but analise010 accepted the 2nd option and told me to stand down, so this went unfinished). I thought about posting it on Valentine's Day but didn't know how to end it. Fast forward to now, and here we are! 
> 
> Please accept your late, late, late present (or early, early, present, or a just 'cause present?). But it's finished! I do hope you enjoy it.


End file.
